The Muggle Who Lived
by jzygail
Summary: What if a Muggle had suffered a brain injury leaving them impervious to certain magical spells, including some of the strongest Dark magic? This story explores that because I'm a huge geek and wanted to.
1. Chapter 1

I was only going to the market because I had been too lazy to thaw out the chicken I had in the freezer. Okay, fine, not lazy; I'd just plain forgotten. Again. I used to be good at remembering stuff like that, and it was my combined frustration over my lingering memory lapses as well as the never-ending rain in Northern England that spring that had me so busy fuming I didn't really notice the oddly dressed guy at the end of the lane.

Well, not until he pointed at me and yelled something that sounded like "Abra-cadabra" (but wasn't), and then the bright fucking flash of light that had me stumbling on the cobblestones in the lane and fall flat on my ass, knocked my head into the light post nearby and fell over, blinded and dazed. And probably on the verge of another damned seizure—perhaps it was my sheer fury over that that prevented the seizure. I'll never know. I do know I was so livid, I just lay there, stupid, wet, pissed off, and getting wetter and madder by the minute. Blind.

Damn, the lingering flashes were starting to morph into a migraine. Well, obviously. What could have been a more fitting end to this shit-ass day?

I blinked finally, to try to clear my vision, only to hear someone crouched next to me whisper urgently, "Don't move! Stay perfectly still!"

Months in the hospital and rehab after that had conditioned me to listen to medical types, so I did as I was told. My vision was clearing very slowly, so I wasn't immediately concerned that my EMT appeared to be wearing college graduation robes nor that he had a beard longer than my upper arm. Granted, such detailed hallucinations were not a normal occurrence, but since my head injury 18 months ago, so little in my life could be filed under the heading of 'normal,' I wasn't particularly disturbed by it.

Then another oddly dressed person arrived within my vision. And a third. And they were whispering together, so I could only hear bits and pieces of their conversation.

"No, she's the only one."

"But how?"

"Gun fund. Us….."

Beard Guy turned to me, pointed a stick at me and repeated something close to that last bit, with a puzzled expression. As if he had an expectation that I should have been responding in a way that I clearly was not.

He did it again.

"May I sit up now?"

"Certainly." A typical British gentleman, he was unfailingly polite, helping me to sit up. "What do you remember?"

How many times have I answered THAT question in the last 18 months? And how nice to know they weren't talking about the accident. Well, not THAT accident. A new one. Joy.

"Not much. Guy pointed at me, yelled something I didn't understand and then there was a blinding flash of light and I tripped and fell." I could feel the shakes begin and knew I needed to get home fast, get something dry on and maybe I'd just have soup for dinner. Even I should be able to manage opening a can, right?

And then the other two men moved and I could see the busy market place was littered with…bodies? Seriously, we were the ONLY people that seemed to be up and moving.

"What happened? What's going on?"

Strange Guy 2 didn't answer me. He turned to Beard Guy and said, "Use the Memory Charm, Professor."

"I did, Arthur. You saw me do it. It does not appear to be working."

None of this was making any sense, but I was less disturbed about it than I might have been otherwise, because I could feel chills taking over and was unable to stop shivering. At this point, I doubt I could have stood on my own, and they must have realized because they helped me up and began moving me out of the square.

"You…you're g..g..going the wr….wroo..wrong way." I protested.

Beard Guy simply said, "We have no time. We're taking you to a safe place."

Yes, in hindsight I realize that I should not have acquiesced as I did, but you had to be there. This guy was SO convincingly ….. caring, is the only word I can describe it. He'd really not done anything to make me trust him, but I did. Also Strange Guy 3 gave me his cape and that was warm and apparently, in a crisis I now have all the survival instincts of a puppy: Feed me, make me warm, and I'll follow you anywhere.

As it happened, it was the right decision, but I take no particular credit for it. I did retain enough sense to ask, "Who ARE you people?"

"I'm Albus Dumbledore."

"I'm Arthur Weasley."

I fainted before Strange Guy 3 could tell me his name.


	2. Chapter 2

I woke completely disoriented in a cottage that wasn't familiar to me. I could see mountains from a window across the room from where I lay. I turned my head and saw the man called Dumbledore seated nearby, watching. The afternoon's events flashed vividly and horrifically into my head and I sat up quickly.

"The people in the village! What happened to us?"

He seemed to think for a moment, as if weighing what he would say and how, and I flashed back to the accident and the nurse who told me about Mike and Jenny, and knew as I'd known then. The villagers were dead.

He didn't really have to say the words. So he didn't.

"Why? Who would do that?"

Rather than answer any of my questions, Dumbledore asked one of his own. "May I know your name?"

His refusal to tell me anything infuriated me.

"No. Not until you tell me what happened. And why."

"We're still not sure. I need to ask you more questions to be sure. Will you help us?"

I wanted to refuse because he wouldn't tell me anything, but thought of the villagers who had always been polite and friendly to me, a stranger.

"What do you want to know?"

"Well, first of all, your name."

"Ann. Ann Jacobs."

"Do you remember me telling you my name?"

I nodded. "Albert Dumbledore."

"Albus."

"Sorry. Albus." There was a silence and I was desperate to fill it, though I couldn't tell you why. "They called you Professor."

"I teach."

"And fight crime?" I'd thought he was a detective or something.

He smiled then. "A little of both, but I prefer teaching. You said a man pointed a stick and yelled something. Can you remember what he said?"

"It sounded like Abra Cadabra, but that wasn't it."

The man who'd called himself Arthur entered the room with tea as I answered and it was obvious my answer disturbed him. It didn't surprise him though. He and Dumbledore exchanged looks. "the Killing Curse."

"The what?"

Dumbledore ignored me and asked, "And then what happened?"

"There was a blinding flash of light. I thought I was having a…. well, I stumbled on the cobblestones and fell and hit my head pretty hard. It knocked the wind out of me and I was still blinded by the flash, so I didn't see anything else until you helped me."

By now the third man had returned with cups. He poured for us all and handed me one, introducing himself at the same time. "I'm Remus Lupin."

"It's nice to meet you." Because it's always nice to meet people after a mass murder. He was kind enough to ignore the lameness of my social niceties so I continued. "I'm Ann Jacobs. So, who ARE you people? Because clearly you're NOT the police. And if you're not, shouldn't we be calling them and reporting what happened?"

Arthur and Remus exchanged looks and then both looked to Dumbledore for a response.

"I am a wizard," he said it like one would announce, "I have red hair." "Arthur and Remus are also wizards. The attack in the market was by a wizard. He used a curse that, except for one notable exception, has never been successfully countered.

"I would not think it possible, even by a witch or wizard and yet you are clearly a Muggle and have emerged from such an attack unscathed. I need to discover why and how."

It sounded like English. The words were recognizably English. And yet, none of them made any sense at all.

Didn't seem to faze Dumbledore who continued on.

"I have attempted 5 separate Memory Charms on you and you've successfully countered each of them. I would know if you were a witch; so you must be a Muggle. But I must know how you survived the attack and how you have countered my memory spells."

I tried to think of a response. Any response. I had nothing. I stared at Dumbledore and he gazed back.

"Won't you help us? Please?"

"I wouldn't even know where to begin. I have no idea what you're talking about. Witches and wizards and spells and who knows what else. That stuff's not real!"

"I assure you, it's very real."

"right. Because you can walk down any street and find witches and wizards, just doing their magical thing, right? Well, where the hell were you 2 years ago, huh?"

The force of my sudden anger even surprised me.

"Where should we have been 2 years ago?"

I shook my head, embarrassed. "Never mind, it doesn't matter. I shouldn't have said that. All I'm saying is you sit there and expect me to believe in magic and then help you confirm there's magic. And of all the things I don't believe in anymore, magic is right at the top of the list."

My voice broke then. I blinked furiously to keep the tears that suddenly threatened at bay. And then cleared my throat and took a deep breath.

"Magic doesn't exist" I finished. "It just doesn't."

"I'm very sorry, but magic exists. Dark magic is responsible for the attack in the village. And I need to know why it didn't affect you."

Right up to that moment, I'd assumed he was sane. Clearly, I was wrong. Again. But I tried to appeal to his sense of logic.

"Look, even **if** there were such a thing as magic, it should be obvious that I didn't know about it til just now. So how on earth could I tell you why I wasn't harmed in the attack?"

He ignored my question entirely.

"Tell me about what happened 2 years ago."

"No."

"Why not?

"Because I don't want to talk about it. Because it's got nothing to do with today. And it's totally none of your business!" My hands shook so badly the teacup clattered in the saucer and I quickly put them down and clamped my hands between my knees.

"It upsets you."

"Well, obviously. But it's private and I don't want to talk about it." My voice shook and cracked again, and I could feel tears welling up despite my best efforts against it. I gave up all pretense at being calm and yelled, "It's got nothing to do with today!"

"Not directly, no. I don't believe it does. But surviving the Killing Curse makes you unique and I need to learn what it is about you that makes you different from the other Muggles at the market. Maybe what happened then has nothing to do with today. But maybe it does. Will you please tell me?"

He simply would NOT give up!

"How?" I demanded. "What could a car accident that killed my husband and my daughter and put me in the hospital for a year while I learned to walk and read again POSSIBLY have anything to do with today??? Tell me that!"

Just in case the screaming fit wasn't quite humiliating enough, I burst into tears. And not the cute, sweet tears like you see in movies or read about in books, where the heroine's eyes gleam attractively, and she hiccups a few dainty sobs and all the men's hearts melt. I'm talking great,big gulping sobs, runny nose, probably even a little drool while I hid my face in my hands. In short, I was a mess.

What I lacked in poise and grace, they made up for. None of the men tried comforting me with lame platitudes or wimpy pats on the back. They just let me be while I cried and presently someone pressed a handkerchief into my hand. To the extent that anyone can recover gracefully from such a complete breakdown, I tried, wiping my nose with the handkerchief and my eyes with my sleeve.

"I'm sorry," I hiccupped, a post-childhood-tantrum cadence to my voice. "I didn't used to be like this."

I picked up my teacup, which had been refilled as I'd cried and took a tiny sip. Took a deep breath and began.

"There was a car accident. A teenager with a new license cut off a semi-truck in traffic. The truck swerved to avoid him and hit our car head on. My husband and daughter were killed. I hit my head on the door frame when it crumpled. Broke a couple ribs, both legs, collapsed lung. But the worst was the head injury.

"I was unconscious for 2 or 3 hours. Probably a blessing, they said. The EMTs had to cut me out of the car and I wasn't conscious for any of that. Nor when they … when they took my husband and daughter out of the car. I had moderate brain damage and had to learn to read again. My legs had multiple fractures and after all the time in the hospital and rehab, I had to learn to walk again.

"Recovering from the head injury has been the hardest. I couldn't smell anything for weeks afterwards. I get terrible headaches and sometimes have seizures. I have violent mood swings. I have nightmares. And occasionally flashbacks I'm still seeing a therapist. I moved to England because I couldn't bear to remain at home, where everywhere I went and everything I saw reminded me of Mike and Jenny."

I looked up at Dumbledore who was actually smiling! I was shocked by his reaction, but it was Arthur who protested.

"Professor!"

"Pardon me, Arthur; of course, you're right. I am not smiling because she was hurt. But I believe I might understand the problem, although it's quite unique. I don't recall any wizard or witch every encountering this, but we've kept our worlds apart for so many centuries the opportunities wouldn't have come up."

He turned to the third man, and said, "Remus, do you think you could find Madam Pomfrey? I think we could use her services."

Remus nodded, made a brief head nod to me and Arthur and took his leave. Dumbledore handed me a pillow from his chair, walked across the room, pointed a stick at me and said, "Expel a mouse!"

The pillow flew out of my hands. "Oh!"

I looked back and forth at Dumbledore and Arthur, who was beginning to grin like the professor.

"What the hell was that?"

He ignored me, retrieved the pillow and handed it back to me.

"Would you indulge me just a bit longer? I would like you to throw that at me."

Well, why not? After the day it had been already, it almost seemed a sensible request. I obliged him and aimed for his head.

"Re pillow!"

Despite the fact that I still have decent aim and that the pillow had seemed to be right on target, with Dumbledore's words, it veered away at the last minute, missing him completely.

Both men were smiling broadly by then.

"Please, won't you tell me what's going on? I feel like I'm going crazy and I'm not using hyperbole!"

Dumbledore sat across from me. "I'm sorry; that was a test of my theory. As I said earlier, I'm a wizard. So is Arthur and Remus. I didn't understand why my memory charms were useless on you. I think your head injury is the cause.

"I can do magic to things you hold and to things around you, but not to you. Well, more precisely, I **believe** I could do some magic **to** you, such as make you levitate."

I must have reacted to that, because he hastened to add, "I will not, without your permission and then only to confirm my theory. But I believe any charm that requires control over and modifcation of your brain will prove useless on you. And I believe that is why the attack in the market didn't affect you as it did the other Muggles."

"Muggles? You said the before. What are muggles?"

"Non-magical people."

I could feel myself making a face that time and Dumbledore began pointing his stick -- wand -- at objects around the room and making them fly all over the place. He poured me another cup of tea, only this time the teapot did the serving. He even made Arthur (with his permission) fly all over the room and spin circles til Arthur was almost green. It wasn't until an owl flew into the cottage, however, delivering a note from Remus that he and Mrs. Pompfrey were on their way after a slight delay that he would explain later, that I began to accept what must be true: there really is such a thing as Magic.


	3. Chapter 3

When Madam Pomfrey finally called a halt to the magical tests, she became my new best friend. Dumbledore had asked me to give her as complete a background as I could on my injuries, and I'd done so with only a few glaring lapses between Muggle and Magical medicine. Frankly, I was surprised it went as well as it had, since my own grasp of my condition wasn't the best. Fortunately the two worlds don't share a medical vocabulary, so my inability to properly name medical terms was less a handicap than it might have been. I just described things as best as I could and Madam Pompfrey supplied her own definitions. Worked for me.

After that, she supervised while Dumbledore conducted a fairly short series of tests to determine what spells would or would not affect me, as well as to note when a spell might have an unexpected result. There were delightfully few of those—the most notable of these being "locomotor mortis" which, instead of locking my legs and preventing them from moving, simply put them to sleep, with the usual pins and needles feeling. I had attributed my need to relearn walking to the muscle atrophy that occurred while I'd been in traction, but there must have been some slight brain damage that affected them as well. I was, however, the only one who found it amusing. Hey, if you can't laugh at your own brain damage, what's left?

Besides it was only thing funny about the entire couple days' worth of tests. Most of the spells that worked gave me vertigo, which made me motion sick, which is why I was so grateful when Madam Pomfrey declared the testing over. When we had dinner that night (I stuck with a clear broth while my stomach settled), Dumbledore lowered yet another boom on me.

"Obviously, you won't be able to return to the village."

"Obviously? Why obviously? You said they hadn't targeted anyone specifically; it was just a malicious act against Muggles generally. I should be fine there."

"It has nothing to do with your safety there. It has to do with your safety anywhere. If we could use memory spells on you, you'd be back there now, believing you'd never left your cottage that day and grateful for it. Still quite unaware of the magical world."

"But you said there are Muggles who do know about it. What does it matter if I do? It's not like I'm going to run around telling people. Who would believe me? Aside from the very people who would harm me, that is? It's a very powerful incentive to keep it to myself. And I'm not exactly Miss Popularity in the village, anyway. The people there have been kind to me and friendly enough, but I've kept to myself—they wouldn't think anything of it at this point."

"The very nature of your injuries makes you vulnerable to the Death Eaters in a way that other Muggles are not. You can't be killed efficiently, but you are vulnerable to other spells, which could be used to torture you and kill you slowly."

I pushed the broth away, no longer able to even fake hunger.

"Why would they?"

"For the same reason they attacked the market. Because they could. You would be a diversion. They might elect not to kill you at all, but keep you to amuse themselves."

Charming.

"Okay, I can't go back. Where will I go?"

"I want you to stay here. We're just outside a small Muggle village and it's not very far to Arthur and Molly's home. I will leave you a means of contacting them in an emergency. I have someone that I wish to stay with you."

My face must have betrayed my dislike of that idea, because he hastened to add, "Only in the capacity of a boarder, to outsiders. We will let it be known that you are a distant relative come to care for the cottage in the owner's absence. We will use your recuperation to our advantage, which will explain your regular visitors. They are simply overseeing your recovery, much as your Muggle therapist was doing."

"That's an awful lot of trouble for an awful lot of your people."

"I, too, have an ulterior motive. The gentleman who will be staying with you himself needs a place to stay regularly in this area. Boarding with you serves a dual purpose; one from which we might both benefit."

I wanted my privacy invaded nearly as much as I wanted them to make me spin in mid-air again, my least favorite of the spells tested. "Yeah, I don't think that's such a good idea, I'm really not in the mood to have people in and out of the cottage all the time. I told you how bad the mood swings get."

"You needn't worry about that, Ann. Severus is rarely fit for company himself."

"But…!"

"Albus, enough!" Madam Pomfrey interrupted us. "She's is exhausted, poor lamb; she must rest now. You can argue in the morning."

I tried, unsuccessfully, to protest this imposition of a bedtime on me too, but Madam Pomfrey was not to be denied. She nodded and agreed and acted quite sympathetic to my protests, while she hustled me from the table to the room where I'd been sleeping the past few nights, bundled me into a nightgown and tucked me in. Except for the decent jammies, it was very like being back in the hospital. And months of conditioning by nurses with an iron will had left me completely defenseless. Besides, as my leaden eyelids drooped, it occurred to me she might have had a point.


	4. Chapter 4

The days passed pretty quickly from that point on, surprisingly enough. Dumbledore left me in Molly Weasley's capable hands as far as getting what few belongings I had moved into the cottage and I didn't see him again for some time.

In the meantime, I made a daytrip into London to see my therapist and let her know of my change of address. Just before leaving, I was poking around in an old junk shop and came upon a ancient treadle sewing machine. It was filthy, but when I turned the mechanism, the needlebar moved easily. An impulse I couldn't explain took over and 30 minutes later I was dragging The Beast behind me on a luggage cart back to the train station. The shop owner was going to bring up the treadle cabinet and irons on his next visit to the district.

Molly met me at the station, having just dropped off her numerous children for the train to Hogwarts. "What on earth…?"

"It's a sewing machine. My grandmother used to have one like it and she let me play with it. I thought it might be fun to see if I can get it working again."

"Don't you dare let Arthur at it!"

I laughed, remembering his discovery of my Rubik's cube. I'd used it as part of my therapy after the accident and after a week of it occupying his every free moment, Molly had threatened me bodily if I gave him any more gadgets.

I had it in pieces, while I cleaned decades of old oil and gunk from the machine when there came a knock at the cottage door a day or two later. I wasn't sure who or what I expected to greet me on the other side, but it wasn't the man who appeared. Up to now, my experience with magical people was positive. The people I'd met were friendly and helpful.

"I am Severus Snape. Professor Dumbledore told me that I will have the large bedroom in the front."

Severus Snape was not friendly. He could have been a reasonably decent looking guy without the scowl on his face. Or, you know, if he'd wash his hair occasionally.

"I'll be wanting tea in my room at 5."

It was the wrong thing to say. And then he compounded it.

"Preferably after you've washed."

I pointed to the right. "The kitchen is in there. Feel free to use my groceries this evening until you can buy your own. When you have your tea is entirely up to you, but you might want to buy a tea kettle when you're out buying your groceries, because I don't have one. I usually eat dinner around 6 or so. If you have a preference, however, I'm flexible and will arrange my meals around yours, leaving the kitchen free. For you. To cook your dinner."

His eyes widened as I spoke, and I seriously thought his head would explode by the time I was done.

"I'm not your maid or your cook. And I don't expect you to be mine. Nor my best friend, as far as that goes. But if you can't manage basic civility, then keep your conversation to a minimum, as my temper is on a really short fuse these days."

With that, I spun on my heel and stalked back to the table where the sewing machine waited, sat down and resumed cleaning the presser foot. He muttered something and I heard the front bedroom door slam.

Well. That went well. I sighed and looked at the clock. It was 4:30, so I gathered up the sewing machine and its parts and cleared them off the table and then cleaned the top. I had no intention of serving that asshole tea, but I figured he at least deserved space to serve himself, and resolved to get a small worktable for the sitting room.

Glancing at my hands, I winced; yeah, it wouldn't kill me to renew my friendship with soap. The mirror in the bathroom drove that point home even more forcefully. Lord, love a puppy. The man was a dick, no question, but I couldn't really blame him for his 'washing up' comment. My face was streaked with grease and my hair? Just a mess. I'd pulled it back when I started working on the machine, but the cut of it wasn't quite long enough for a ponytail, so tendrils escaped everywhere and my attempts to sweep them off my face accomplished nothing more than transferring sewing machine oil. I sighed and set about making repairs to my face and hair.

Fifteen minutes later, I emerged, my face de-greased and my hair wrapped in a hand towel after a quick but vigorous washing in the bathroom sink. And just about knocked Snape down, as he was standing just outside the bathroom, waiting silently if not patiently.

"Sorry," I muttered.

I didn't catch what he said, voiced as it was under his breath, but the tone was pure contempt, so it wasn't really hard to guess the gist. It occurred to me that if he'd been traveling he might have been looking forward to washing up himself and I'd not even offered him the bathroom first. Sharing living quarters was obviously going to take some getting used to.

I decided to cut the man some slack and headed to my own bedroom. I had some exercises my physical therapist wanted me to do every day and it would give Snape a chance to settle in without me hounding his every move in the meantime. Besides, I was increasingly convinced I owed him an apology for hogging the bathroom and it wasn't sitting well.

An hour later, I headed back downstairs, dressed for my evening walk, to find Snape in the sitting room. A fire had been built in the fireplace and I fleetingly hoped the chimney was clean enough not to ignite. I didn't dwell on that bit though because there was a tripod of sorts I'd never seen before set up IN the fireplace upon which a kettle was announcing that the water was ready. And I don't mean it was whistling, either.

"Your water is ready, Professor." is what it said. The teapot.

I could have made a sound; it might be why Snape turned to notice me in the doorway. He arched an eyebrow with the clear message of triumph. Or smirking. Or something. I don't really know because I was still processing the whole Talking Teapot bit. I know I felt like an idiot and he looked happy, or at least as happy as I'd seen him to that point.

"I'm gonna go for a walk." I muttered inanely and left the house, my Walkman clutched in my hands uselessly for at least the first mile before I realized it. I finally sighed, put the earphones on and continued my usual evening route.


	5. Chapter 5

Relations between Snape and I continued on the way they had begun: sarcastically and rudely. I swear that man brought out the very worst in me. Which is only fair because it was clear my very existence on Earth was an offense to him.

In my own defense, I had attempted to call a truce the morning after his arrival. I had just come downstairs after my morning physical therapy exercises, looking for a bit of breakfast before I took my morning walk. Snape was in the kitchen, cooking God alone only knows what—it smelled so bad I tried not to look.

"I'm really sorry about hogging the bathroom yesterday after you got here."

"There is no reason for us to speak to each other," he informed me coldly. "If you're not here to clean or cook, I have no use for you."

Well, alrighty, then.

I crossed to the cabinet, grabbed out a box of cereal, hoping to douse it with milk and get the hell out of there before I succumbed to the temptation to empty my last remaining milk on his head.

"Will you be pounding on my ceiling every morning, or was today a special treat? A welcome of sorts?"

Apparently the ban on speaking was only to apply to me, so I shrugged, put my finger to my lips and whispered, "No talking. Remember?"

His eyes narrowed with irritation, but he continued anyway, "I thought you were herding pigs up there, but I guess there's just the one of you."

Ooh, direct hit. That stung. Which was kind of stupid, considering how much weight I'd lost after the accident, but no woman likes to be called a pig, even by an ignorant goat-screwing fuckwit.

Even so, we might have actually recovered from the morning's insult-fest if I hadn't said that last bit out loud.

Fortunately, Snape wasn't around a lot that first week or two. Especially since our next few exchanges didn't improve much. Other than in refining our ability to sling insults, that is. I occasionally got the feeling we got away with so much because neither of us was entirely sure what the other was really saying, although by context and tone alone, it wasn't good.

When he wasn't around, I felt bad for my part in it. But that usually lasted only as long as his first sneer. And once or twice, not even that long. I'd asked Molly about him just after he got there, but she was carefully diplomatic and just gave me his work history, that he was Potions Master at Hogwarts. And then she explained what that meant.

Which is really the only excuse I have for one evening blurting out, "Jesus Christ, you're a fucking Potions Master! Shouldn't you be able to cook?" when his dinner was particularly noxious smelling.

It was one of the rare occasions when I fired the first salvo and his eyes widened briefly before he settled in for an evening's battle.

"Since you declared your uselessness on that score the first night, I have little choice."

"It's not rocket science, y'know."

"Which no doubt explains how house elves--or youself--can manage it."

House elf, my ass. I **did** know what that was! (I'd asked Molly after hearing the expression while Arthur and Remus were visiting.)

"So basically, you're saying you're dumber than a house elf?"

He glared even more, then evened out his expression and slung, "I simply haven't had the time for such trivialities. **I** have work."

Low blow. And he knew it. Dammit, **how** he knew it was beyond me because it wasn't like we'd had any long conversations about how I hated not being able to work, but he knew it.

Left with no more ammunition to fire than, "Oh, yeah?!?" I turned my back on him. From the fridge, I removed the thawed chicken breast I was planning for dinner. Usually I would filet the breast, but tonight I took out my annoyance at Snape on the breast with a tenderizer. I stopped long before that did the trick, but I did want something left to eat.

He watched me as I worked, which was unusual. Most nights he couldn't escape my company fast enough. Not that it bothered me. Well not much anyway, since most nights I couldn't escape **his** company fast enough. When I removed the breast from the skillet and deglazed the pan, he actually stood and crossed so he could watch me.

"Why did you do that?"

"What? Pour the broth in?"

He nodded.

"I'm making a pan sauce. The broth helps remove the bits that stuck to the pan when I cooked the chicken and that will flavor the sauce." I reached for the bottle of cooking wine and was surprised again when he handed it to me. "Thanks."

There was dead silence in the kitchen while we both stared carefully at the pan. When the sauce had reduced enough, I turned off the burner, added a bit of butter, stirred, tasted it, added some seasoning and then pulled veggies out of the fridge for my salad. While my back was turned, Snape had left the room.

Shit. Did we just have an actual conversation? I checked my forehead for fever. I felt fine, so it must be Snape who was sick.


	6. Chapter 6

Fortuntely, Snape was only afflicted by a 24-hour variant of whatever bug it was that had made him human. By the next day, we were back to sniping as usual. Which, frankly, was a relief. You always know where you stand with a man who calls you dumber than a house elf with the personality of a troll. I'm not whining; I did, after all, call him a fuckwit first. But clearly Cooking 101 had been nothing more than a moment's aberration.

I had other things to occupy my time, as I received notice that my antique dealer would be delivering my sewing cabinet later in the week, so I was busy getting the machine head cleaned up and ready to try out. It was less a matter of mechanical expertise than sheer elbow grease; the sewing machine was in really good condition for being nearly 100 years old; it was simply filthy and covered in decades-old oil grunge.

When I wasn't playing sewing machine grease jockey, I was visiting nearby towns to seek out fabric shops. It had been years since I'd last had the time to indulge my love of sewing—at least since Jenny's birth. I think her layette was the last sewing project I'd been able to tackle.

The night before my cabinet was to arrive, Snape found me upstairs in the extra bedroom that I'd commissioned as my sewing room.

'what a refreshing change," he sniped from the doorway. "You're not covered in filth."

"Darling! You're home! I've missed you so!" I batted my eyelashes at him.

"You? Missed me?"

"Ever so. But my aim improves every day."

He actually snorted at that.

"To what do I owe this honor?"

"There's some sort of table in the front garden."

My eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Wooden table top? Metal legs?"

"yes."

I gasped, dropped my scissors on the fabric atop the worktable, and pushed past Snape. "That rat bastard! He said he'd drop it off tomorrow! Why didn't he ring??"

"I'm hurt. I'm not the only rat bastard in your life?"

I hurried down the stairs.

"Not at the moment. But don't despair; you're still my favorite."

I threw open the front door and there was my sewing cabinet. In the front yard. In the rain.

"Dammitdammitdammit!"

I ran out of the house, got about 2 steps, stepped flat on a stone in my barefeet and stopped cold, hopping on my good foot while I quickly checked the other for damage. Snape pushed past me, pointed his wand, uttered some incantation and the table obligingly delivered itself inside where a tea towel dried it off, before it continued upstairs to the sewing room. I stared at Snape in surprise.

"Okay, that? Was seriously the most awesome thing I've ever seen anyone do."

As quickly as his good mood had appeared, his surly one resurfaced.

"And what would you have done if I hadn't? How long would I have had to listen to you banging that thing across the garden, into the house, up the stairs, no doubt cursing the entire way, before you finally accomplished the same thing?"

The only thing more obnoxious than a snarky Snape was a snarky Snape who was completely right. Right down to the swearing.

I scowled at him. " I really don't like you."

He had the nerve to mimic my earlier eyebatting and respond, "But I'm still your favorite rat bastard, aren't I?"

I turned and stomped up the stairs. "Well, obviously. My sewing cabinet is upstairs and I'm alive to tell the tale, aren't I?"

I slammed the sewing room door on the sound of his laughter. Losing that last round put me in a foul mood, which made me impatient and careless while trying to lift the 40 pound sewing machine onto the hinges that held it in the cabinet. So it was no real surprise when I managed to pin my index finger between the machine head and cabinet.

"Fuckerbitch!" I yanked the wounded finger free and watched as it bruised nearly immediately. It wasn't swelling—well, not very fast anyway, so I double checked that at least the machine head wasn't in any danger of crashing to the floor [or through it] before going back downstairs to the kitchen for ice. Blessedly, the kitchen was empty; I really wasn't ready for Round 2 at the moment. Mostly because I was fairly certain I'd lose that one, too. I was not at all happy to realize Snape had helped me out and I wasn't in a position to return the favor. He was a dick; I did **not** want to be beholden to him.

I'd been counting on the antiques guy to help me get the table upstairs; discovering that he'd just basically dropped and run, leaving me to haul it upstairs was annoying as all shit. While I grumbled under my breath, I filled another tea towel with ice cubes and put it on my finger to try and stem some of the swelling.

My Snape-free moment was all too brief as he entered the kitchen just as I sat down with my hand in the ice. Whatever he'd come in for was forgotten when he saw me and he pulled my hand free to survey the damage. Wizards like him must just use their wands without even thinking because he immediately pulled it from his robes, waved it and pointed it at the finger. Yeah. Nothing.

I met his eyes sheepishly. "Sorry. Brain damage. Pain goes through the central nervous system to the brain. Thanks for trying, tho."

I pulled my hand from his grasp and put it back in the ice.

"How did you manage that?"

"Don't ask. I was being more stupid than usual, with completely predictable results."

"How have you managed to survive this long, I wonder, without constant supervision?"

"God's mercy."

He snorted at that. "Are you planning any more attempts on your life this evening? Perhaps if you tell me now, I can help."

"Who are you, and what did you do with Severus Snape?"

"I simply do not wish to try sleeping while you drop the contents of the cottage on your head."

"Very funny. Ha. Ha." He stared at me, waiting for an answer.

"Fine. Yes, I could use your help, if you insist on offering."

"Oh, please, may I?"

When it comes to sarcasm, it's **much** better to give than receive. I scowled at him again, and stomped my way back upstairs to show him the last bit I needed done, which he did. Quickly. Efficiently. Condescendingly. With a good dollop of sneering laid on for good measure. My irritation with him grew into a tangible thing and he took full advantage of it as he bid me good night, by patting my head and telling me, "Kittens are so adorable when they hiss and spit."

I gave up on all attempts at sewing that evening; it would have ended badly. Instead I pouted myself off to bed, with visions of using Snape as a pin cushion to lull me to sleep.


End file.
